


metamorphosis

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [70]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, part one is the pain part two is where i fix what i broke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-14 15:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Hermann has never seen this man before, but God help him he recognises those eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [sarah1281](https://sarah-1281.tumblr.com/) asked: "At some point pre-uprising enough of the precursor plot was discovered so Newton Geiszler became useless. They took Newt and ran and got extensive plastic surgery. Years later, after uprising, Hermann goes to see the precursor puppet. He's never seen this man before but God help him he recognizes those eyes. Just in case lol"

“Shit,” Newt hisses, eyes wide, panicked, “shit shit shit _shit_ .” His fingers fly over the keyboard, searching, searching—any possible mistake, any way that this could be a false alarm, it _has_ to be wrong. This can’t—that can’t _be him_. He’d never—

And yet, the files are there.

 _Kaiju cloning_ and _New Breaches_ and _Invasion_ , and without thinking of the repercussions, he’d opened it—foolish, foolish, _foolish_ and fuck, he can’t—he’s frozen.

The file loads up, graphs and charts and data and lines upon lines upon lines of code, _his_ code, code he’s written but he doesn’t _remember_ —

“What’s _wrong with me?_ ” he snarls, desperation and fear, because there’s this sensation of impending doom, if anyone, anyone at _all_ sees these, it’ll be the _end_ , the end of their _plan damnit_ —

The thought brings him up short. _What_ plan? He doesn’t have a plan—

And then, like an avalanche, it crashes over him; the kaiju masters, the _Precursors_ , and _of course it isn’t_ your _plan_.

He can’t stifle the horrified whimper that escapes him, presses his hand to his mouth. Without meaning too, he’s biting his palm, the pain bringing tears into his eyes. He has to do something about this, he has to tell someone— _Hermann_ —

 _No_.

The word is loud, so loud it overpowers all other thoughts, leaves him reeling, shock, shock, _shock_ —

The computer beeps. “Unauthorised persons are attempting to access your files,” it says, cool monotone. “Would you like to delete files?”

 _Yes_ , howls the collective, _yes, DELETE, they MUST NOT LEARN—_

Newt drags in a ragged breath, knows without ever thinking about it that this cannot be allowed to happen. “ _N—no_ ,” he croaks, “don’t— _nng_ —”

“Files shared,” the voice says, almost pleasantly, and Newt doesn’t even have the chance to feel _relief_ because he’s—

* * *

 

When Hermann bursts into Newt’s quarters, it’s in a disarray.

There’s a laptop on the floor—broken almost fully in two, screen shattered. Clothes are thrown every which way, and papers litter the floor. It’s a mess—not the controlled mess Newt usually keeps, but a genuine mess, as if someone came in and purposefully trashed the place.

Newton is nowhere to be found.

He tries to keep his breathing even, tries to concentrate—could it be that he did this himself?

It’s the only possible answer—the files were on _his_ computer. Newton himself opened them from an email attachment—he did, he _did_ , even though Hermann’s mind rebels at the thought, insists _It can’t have been him, not him, not_ Newton.

Hermann pushes that aside, tries to numb himself, because it tastes like betrayal, bitter and clinging. “He must have fled,” he says, aloud, though there’s no one else in the room. “He realised that we were onto his plans and fled.”

There’s no trace of the other, though—no indication of where he might have gone.

“Doctor Gottlieb?”

It’s one of the members of the hastily-pulled together investigative team—“We need you to leave so we can search the room,” she says, hand on his shoulder. “Please, Doctor Gottlieb, if there’s any hope of locating your partner—”

“ _Colleague_ ,” Hermann corrects dully.

“—colleague,” she amends, “we need you to vacate the scene.”

He swallows. “A—alright,” he says, and backs out of the room, makes his way down the hall.

It’s not until later that he sees his reflection, sees the tear-tracks on his cheeks.

* * *

They never find Newton.

He’s still alive, though—Hermann can _feel_ it.

[He _has_ to be alive. Hermann doesn’t think he could handle learning the biologist is dead.]

Six years later, the PPDC apprehends a man who’s connected to Newt’s kaiju cloning project in Lima, Peru. Hermann’s only notified of it four days after the fact. Nevertheless, he gets on the first flight there as soon as he’s informed of where they’re holding him.

If there’s any way that this man might possess knowledge of Newt’s whereabouts, even the faintest lead, Hermann _has_ to know.

The holding cell isn’t very large, barely enough space for the chair the prisoner’s strapped into and a small, fold-up chair for one other person. Hermann settles himself into the wobbly-legged fold-up chair and sets his cane against the wall, fold his hands in his lap.

The man gives no indication of being aware of Hermann, head lowered, chin on his chest, eyes closed as if in sleep, and Hermann grits his teeth.

“My name is Doctor Gottlieb,” he says, instead. “You were apprehended due to evidence that you were colluding in a project attempting to clone the extraterrestrial beings known as—”

“Kaiju, yes,” the other interrupts, and Hermann almost starts in surprise.

Almost.

Instead, he just clears his throat. “Yes,” he affirms. “However, that’s not why I wish to speak with you. It is my impression that you may have information as to the whereabouts of an associate of mine—Doctor Newton Geiszler.”

The other laughs, suddenly, long and high, hysterical almost. “He’s _dead_ ,” he hisses, venomously— _bitterly_ , Hermann thinks, even. “He’s been dead for six _years_.”

“He is _alive_ ,” Hermann bites back, “I am _sure_ of it.”

The other only hums, leaving Hermann to simmer in frustration. “ _Say_ something!” he finally shouts, and the man offers him a thin smile.

“Tell me, Hermann, do you know what it feels like to have every inch of your skin remodelled, unable to do anything but watch helplessly?” he asks. “To have your identity stripped away from you, second by second at your masters’ bidding?”

“I didn’t give you permission to call me by my first name,” Hermann says, sharply. “And no, I wouldn’t, because I’ve never been part of a kaiju cult hellbent on destroying humanity.”

The prisoner laughs again, but this time, it’s jagged and mirthless. “Is that what you think of me?” he questions, “that I’m a—a kaiju _cultist?_ ”

“It’s the most logical conclusion,” Hermann replies. “Especially given what you were attempting to achieve.”

The other’s eyes snap open, but they’re still hidden by shadows. It’s unsettling, to be able to feel someone’s gaze on him without being able to meet it. “No, Hermann,” he says, an odd quality to his words, a familiarity there that discomforts Hermann, “the masters I refer to aren’t _human_ , silly man. Try again—you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

“... _kaiju masters?_ ” Hermann breathes, after a moment, and the other’s smile widens.

“Got it in one,” he says, lifts his head, looks Hermann straight in the eyes, and Hermann chokes on his words.

He’s never seen this man in his life, but God help him, he recognises those eyes.

They’re Newton’s eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked: "If you're still taking prompts I think you should write this one! Newton laughed with more an edge of lunacy than Hermann thought was really called for, even to make his point."

The sunlight falls on the both of them as they stand there on the roof, watching the sun rise, stains Hermann’s skin from it’s pale white to a golden hue, little wisps of hair escaping from the rest and creating a hazy, halo-like effect.

Hermann’s eyes are closed, and he’s reclining in his chair, expression serene, chest rising and falling lightly as he breathes, looking, for all the world, like he’s asleep. He thinks perhaps this is what they mean when they say  _beauty_.

“You needn’t stand there like some sort of hovering cloud,” Hermann says, without opening his eyes. “There’s another chair right by my side—I know you saw it.”

He swallows, almost reflexive, and says, “I shouldn’t.”

Hermann hums. “I think you should.”

“What if I were to push you off the roof and to your death?” he asks instead of saying what he wants to, because he’s not  _used_ to saying what he wants to. He’s not, really, and he’s even less used to  _wanting_. “Then where would you be?”

“Dead, I’d imagine,” Hermann says drily, “sit. I’ve missed you.”

This time, he does as told—it’s not a suggestion, he’s fairly certain of that; Hermann will manhandle him into the chair if he refuses, and he’s still sore from being strapped into a chair for multiple consecutive weeks. “Alright,” he says, as he does it, not quite sure the purpose of it. Perhaps he’s simply ascertaining aloud that it  _is_ being done.

A slow smile crawls across Hermann’s face, and he turns his head, peers at him through his lashes. “I’m glad you’re alright, Newton,” he says, conversationally, without intent to hurt.

It still hurts, though. “Newton’s been dead for six years,” he replies, almost gentle, “in all but body. I’m no more Newton than you are the king of Mordor.”

“Lord of Mordor,” Hermann corrects, and he’s not looking at him anymore, rather staring off towards the horizon. “And is he truly dead if he lives on in the memories of those who love him?”

“There isn’t anyone who loves Hermann Schmidt,” he replies. “That was made sure of.” 

Hermann sighs. He doesn’t say anything, though he feels like the other wants to. Wants him to. So he says, “The sunrise here’s more colorful than in Hong Kong.”

“At the cost of your lungs, yes,” Hermann agrees. “We should get back to Hong Kong—I think you’ll like what they’ve done with the place. They light off fireworks from Otachi’s skull every Chinese New Year’s.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That seems like a disaster waiting to happen.”

The smile the other offers is small, wry. There’s a buzzing sound, then, and Hermann starts for a moment before realising it’s his phone. “Sorry,” he says, “I should probably answer this.”

He tunes out the conversation, instead focusing on the ever-brightening horizon, the steady creeping of golds and purples and greens. He doesn’t remember ever seeing to sunrise, here, come to think of it—doesn’t remember seeing much at all. Thinks he’ll need glasses, actually, because six years without them is probably the reason everything is out of focus.

Voices the thought out loud once Hermann’s done with the phone-call, leans over so he’s closer to the other. “Black?” Hermann asks, belaying some sort of hidden meaning he’s missing.

“I don’t care.” He shrugs, catches sight of Hermann’s lock-screen.

It’s a selfie, obviously—the quality isn’t the best, but it depicts two men, Hermann and another, round-faced and wild-haired, and he’s gazing at Hermann with what could be easily called adoration.

It’s similar, he suspects, to what he himself feels towards Hermann. “Who’s that?”

The wide-eyed look Hermann gives him registers as  _surprise_ , though he’s not sure why, and it’s gone a second latter. When Hermann doesn’t say anything, he swallows, asks, “Your partner?”

Hermann’s expression is inexplicably soft. Instead of answering, he says, “I hope you know you’re a hero.”

He scoffs. “That’s not true. I’m just a human who’s made a shit-ton of bad choices and now the consequences are finally catching up with me. And don’t deflect my question. Who is it?”

“I suppose you could say  _partner_ ,” Hermann says, “and a hero isn’t faultless. Sometimes, they’re the ones who fall the furthest and risk breaking so the rest of us don’t have to.”

“What happened to  _poetry, politics, promises?_ ” he mocks. Lightly, though. “Current partner?”

“That all depends on you,” Hermann says, and he gets the distinct impression that Hermann is watching him with a hawk-like intensity—confirmed when he glances at the other. “I would like that very much, as a matter of fact, but like I said—that hinges on you.”

A frown, he thinks, is what’s playing across his face. “Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, “I’m—touched, or whatever, but are you seriously going to just— _not_ make a move if I don’t like him? That’s nice of you, to consider my input, but come on, Hermann, you can’t put your life on halt because of me.”

Hermann shakes his head. “As always, you’re one step behind,” he says, but there’s a fondness there, and this time, he gets the joke.

“I’m not,” he says, nearly petulant, throws in a pout for good measure because he can.

The physicist’s sigh is more dramatic than anything, this time, and he says, “That’s you and that’s me. And I hope… _us_.”

“… _me?_ ” he asks, at length. “Oh. I’d…forgotten.”

The realisation brings tears forth, suddenly, anger and frustration and deep-seated melancholy all in one, and he makes as if to wipe them away, but can’t follow through with the motion.

The distinct lack of tattoos on his arms shouldn’t be this painful, and yet it is, because it was a part of him, and now that it’s gone, he’s not the same. He’s not  _Newton_ , really, and he doesn’t know if he ever will be.

“You don’t have to,” Hermann reasures, and his hand’s on his cheek, fingers unexpectedly callused, cold. “I wouldn’t expect you to, you know.”

He blinks rapidly. “Okay,” he says, “I—okay.”

Hermann smiles.

* * *

The apartment is small—located on the first floor, it has a joint living room and kitchen area, a small bathroom and a bedroom. Hermann spends ages fussing over the bed, offers to acquire another mattress or—

“No, thanks,” he says, and the words feel cottony in his mouth, pushes forward anyway because he can see that Hermann wants this just as much as he does. “I sleep better with human contact, anyway.”

That much is true—and it’s something he’s been deprived of, as well. The lines of tension painting Hermann sharply defuse. “Alright,” he says. “Would you like anything to eat?”

He blinks. “…eat?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hermann says, impatient, but it’s familiar. “You know, the act of consuming edible materials so that your body can function?”

“I know what  _eating_ means, Hermann,” he snaps. Well, he did. He does. “I was just—surprised. We ate on the plane ride over.” They did—or, Hermann ate, somehow proficient with the flimsy utensils provided, his own vegetable noodle meal gone within minutes while he simply picked at his own, only managed to eat a few bites before losing his appetite.

Hermann frowns at him. “You played with your food, that’s not the same thing. Take-out or pancakes?”

“Have you got chocolate chips?”

“I have ice cream,” he offers. “Strawberries, too.”

He sighs. “Alright, alright. I can help, though.”

“You  _cannot_ ,” Hermann says sternly, “you cannot  _see_  properly. We need to get you glasses.”

The though of being in another cool, air-conditioned office makes his breath stutter, choking in his throat, and—

Hermann’s hand on his shoulder; concern on his face. “Are you alright?” he asks, softly. “Is it something I said?”

 _No_ , he wants to say, instinctive,  _no I’m fine_ , because admitting otherwise is showing weakness, but his traitorous body’s already revealed it, hands shaking, lip trembling, and when he tries to speak it’s a muffled whine.

Hermann’s eyes widen. “I—” he flounders, pulls him into a hug instead. He lets his head rest on Hermann’s shoulder, the tears wetting the fabric of his shirt. “It’s alright,” Hermann murmurs, “let is out, let it all out.”

He sniffles, presses his eyes shut. “I haven’t cried in years,” he says, more evenly than he thought he could. Then, “do we  _have_  to go to an optometrist?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Hermann reassures, “there are kits you can buy for home use, if you’d prefer that.”

 _Oh_. “Yeah,” he says, “um. Yeah, I’d like that. If—if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Hermann says, warmth in his tone. “Now, let’s get you something to eat, alright?”

“Okay,” he agrees.

The pancakes aren’t much—Hermann hasn’t put in nearly enough baking powder, he thinks, but it’s nice, to sit on the sofa together and eat them, the strawberries sweet and just that side of ripe where they’re a deep, ruby red, and afterwards, as promised, there’s ice-cream.

For the first time in years, he thinks he might just feel a bit like Newton Geiszler again.

* * *

When Jacob calls, a few days latter, it’s unexpected; Hermann’s busy with a project, and Newt is looking through a glasses catalogue online, now that they’ve got his prescription.

“What do you think about these ones?” he asks, pointing to a pair of gaudy cat’s-eye glasses. Neon pink, Hermann notes.  _Horrifying_ , he doesn’t say.

Instead, he sighs. “Do you  _want_ to blind yourself and everyone in your vicinity?” he asks.

Newt shrugs. “Eh,” he says, noncommittal, and scrolls down a bit. “How about—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, cut off by the shrill ringing of an incoming call from Hermann’s phone, practically jumps in surprise, eyes wide, before Hermann sets a hand on his arm and picks up the phone.

“Oh,” he says, relaxing minutely, “who is it?”

Hermann checks the caller ID. “Your father.” Then, more gently, because he can feel the way Newt’s stiffened, “I can hang up if you don’t feel like—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” he cuts in, voice high, swallows, and says, more evenly, “no, it’s fine. Go ahead.”

“If you’re certain,” Hermann murmurs, and answers.

The screen shows Jacob Geiszler’s face for a moment before it blinks out, goes totally black, and then there’s a scuffle. “Hang on a sec Hermann,” Jacob says, “I accidentally flipped the camera around—”

“You do that  _every time_ ,” scolds Illia.

By his side, Newt is no longer as tense—there’s even the beginnings of a smile. “Swipe up from the bottom of the screen,” he advises.

There’s a pause, and then the camera flips around, shows Illia and Jacob peering at the screen, matching expressions of hope on their faces. “Newt?” Jacob asks, as if hardly daring to believe it.

Hermann cats a glance at the other, suddenly worried, because what if—

“Yeah,” Newt says, slightly choked, “it’s me, dad.”

The two men break into wide grins. “I  _knew_ I recognised that voice,” Illia says, “how are you?”

“I—” he swallows, looks to Hermann. Hermann lowers his hand from where it is on the other’s arm, slips it into his hand and offers a reassuring squeeze. “…better,” he says. “I’m doing better.” 

He motions to Hermann for the phone.

“Are you sure?” Hermann asks, quietly, and he nods.

“Hey dad, hey uncle Illia,” Newt says, the words hesitant, “I missed you guys.”

There’s a second of silence, and Newt’s face crumbles—

“Bastards couldn’t get rid of the Geiszler nose,” Jacob says, proudly. 

“Or the voice,” Illia chimes in. “You still have that god-awful squeak.”

Newt smiles—relief. “I guess if evil alien overlords can’t get rid of it, nothing can, huh?” he says.

“Nope,” Jacob says, “we Geiszlers are a stubborn bunch.”

“You can say  _that_ again,” Hermann mutters, not intending for anyone to hear it, but Newt does, and he laughs, carefree.

It’s good, Hermann realises. It feels…good.

* * *

Later, as they lay in bed, Hermann by his side, leeching warmth from Newt’s skin just by proximity—the man is a veritable icicle, honestly, it’s kind of ridiculous—Newt says, quiet, “Thank you.”

“What for?” Hermann asks, voice muffled into Newt’s shoulder.

He swallows.  _For everything_ , he can’t bring himself to say. “For keeping in touch with my folks,” he says, instead. “For letting them know what happened.”

Hermann shifts minutely. “That’s what partners do for each other, isn’t it?” he says. 

Newt’s smiling without even meaning to. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess it is.”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said,” Hermann says firmly. “Now, be quiet and go to sleep.”

* * *

Newt eventually settles on a pair of rimless, black-lensed glasses.

“You look like a movie villain,” Hermann says, deadpan, from where he’s sitting, and Newton laughs with more an edge of lunacy than Hermann thinks was really called for, even to make his point.

“I’m Darth GlassesMan, and I’ll conquer this planet!” he says theatrically, leaning fully into the role, and throws his arms out in a sweeping gesture.

Hermann laughs in spite of himself. “The only thing you should be conquering is your inability to sit properly,” he says, but his heart isn’t in it.

Newt grins and sits down beside him—sprawls  _on_ him, actually. “You love me anyway,” he says, ignoring Hermann’s momentary indignant sputtering.

Hermann sighs. “God help me,” he says, “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [three-black-cats](https://three-black-cats.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
